


Pieces of the People We Love

by moonbeam_broker



Category: Borderlands (Video Games), TFTBL - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anger, Angst, Catharsis, Emotional Hurt, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Multi, Multiple Crossovers, Near Death Experiences, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Reader-Insert, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-11-07 22:50:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20825120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonbeam_broker/pseuds/moonbeam_broker
Summary: Ficlets I occasionally post on tumblr that are written primarily for self-indulgence. Enjoy!





	1. The past is a knife. (Rhys + Fiona)

She just couldn’t figure him out.

Above everything stupid he had done, past all of the whining and complaining, the lying he had done to save his own ass took the cake, and twisted the knife deeper into her chest.

It made her sad, and in her family that meant fire. Sasha had been right, like always.

Why couldn’t Fiona ever follow through with her gut feeling? She had wanted to trust him, and he’d betrayed that trust when he’d _lied._

He’d lied to her, lied to _them,_ to protect _himself_ from whatever evil had been knocking around inside his head.

He didn’t _have to_ do that. Things would be okay, were it not for _that._

Fiona had given every thought to this ever since their grand reunion, and hearing his side of the story from his own lips, being threatened by an unknown individual with an unreadable mask had only sparked the fire in her further.

“This is _your_ fault,” she spat, him recoiling as if to dodge the bullet she’d shot from her mouth.

“I know,” he offered, and she paused to stare at him, _hard. _“I know. I fucked up. I was selfish, and I _lied to you._ I lied to _everyone.”_

“So then _why?”_ Her anger unrestrained though her arms were quite literally tied, with rope wrapping her from the waist up. “Why did you do it? We all could have died!”

“I didn’t-” he choked out, “I didn’t really _have_ a choice at all.”

“Rhys, it was _your_ head. You _let_ him in.”

“No, he came unannounced. I was… He had power over me.” He shook his head, the hurt on his face moved her, twinged in her heart for long enough to make her regret her words.

“Listen, I- I know you’re mad.” He continued, “You have every right to be. But I know you’ll forgive me–_maybe,_ maybe not _now,_ but later. One day.”

“Huh…” Fiona puffed out a laugh, incredulous. “You think? What the hell do _you_ know about forgiveness, exactly?” She shifted, seated a distance away from him.

Rhys was quiet, momentarily struggling with himself as he struggled with his binds. She was somewhat calmer remembering he was in the same position.

“I know that it can make things… easier.”

Leaned against the wall of an abandoned building, he could feel the thrashing of an old demon in his pocket, and crouched lower as if to hide away in his lingering mistake.

His secrets were her undoing.


	2. My mistake. (Rhys/Reader)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for PTSD + near-death experience + general angst!

“_____,” he whispers, and your name is like honeyed wine on his lips; sweetened with age, a tone that’s vaguely questioning. “How did we get here?”

Warm, white sheets in the middle of the night, smack dab in the center of a large and luxurious bedroom. You wonder how he knew you were still awake, but chalk it up to your shared insomnia. “The goodwill of the universe, I guess.” You give your best existential conjecture, eyes closed to his calm breathing.

“I would have called it _luck,”_ He hums, fickle, and you smile as you’re drawn deep into memories. “But, I guess that counts.” His arm loops around your shoulder, pulling you closer into him as you find yourself drifting. A frown mars his features, and unbeknownst to you his eyes have wandered from your skin to the dresser that faces him across the room, a cold glow emitting from the top drawer, slightly ajar_–his_ drawer.

You sense his anxiety rising in stages. The goosebumps on his skin give away the chill that passes through his body as the ghost of his former self takes over. He struggles out of the sheets, out of your grasp, and stumbles forward in a sleepless stupor.

“…Rhys?” You question, blinking the bleariness from your eyes. He’s quick to shut the drawer at your voice–a loud and erratic _snap_ that jolts you upward and sets every nerve on edge. You panic quietly, gripping the sheets as you decide to stand from the bed to regard him, his form hunched over at the dresser with hands closed into tight fists at the top.

“You should have left me,” He abruptly chokes out, “You should have just left me there to _die.” _Audibly sobbing, having slipped into old, reopened wounds. His hands tremble as he removes them from the dresser, opening and closing as he’s unsure of what to do with them. What to do with _himself._

Your hands fly to cover your mouth, eyebrows furrowing as you’re thrown into a fit of guilt and anger and sorrow all at once. Slowly your hands fall again as your legs move forward with fervor. “Rhys, _no,” _You openly plead with him, _**“Stop**_–what are you talking about?”

He sucks in a breath, harsh and haunting. Your feet reach him, arms folding around him from behind as he wills himself to remain as still as a statue to your compassion. “Come back to me,” You wish into his shoulder, “Where did you go? Please, talk to me.”

“At _Opportunity,”_ He sighs outward, giving in to your touch with his resolve of silence steadily crumbling away. How long had he kept this in? “After I removed my cybernetics, I was bleeding out; I thought I was going to _die,_ but you… came back for me.”

“I looked _everywhere_ for you,” You whisper, rubbing his arm to hopefully soothe away his insecurity. “Even though things were iffy between us, even though I thought you’d sacrificed your sanity for some higher status, to some long-dead _psychopath_–Helios was _falling._ I was so afraid, I…” You pause to collect yourself, lightly grasping onto his arm for support as your legs shake.

The weight of the memory has you beat, tears welling and falling from your eyes at the flashback: of being alone in that sea of screaming people, shoved back and forth amidst the prospect of finding your grave at the space station’s resting place. The fear shoots straight through you, causing a shuddering cry to rip from your throat.

“No, _no…”_ Rhys responds immediately, turning in your grasp to hold you tightly against him. “It was all _my_ fault; I did that to you, I did this to _us.”_

“I needed to find _you,”_ You cry at him, _“You_ were the first thing on my mind. I looked everywhere, because _without_ you I _would_ have died. I couldn’t have gone on, I couldn’t…”

“Don’t say that…” He cradles your head against his chest, sighing out in irregular breaths. “Please, don’t say that.”

“I need you to hear it,” You counter in anger and in frustration, “Because **_how dare you_** tell me that I should have left you! I would have left the _one_ piece of _myself_ that I needed.”

He’s unnervingly quiet as he considers this, chin resting on top of your head. His eyes close as he wills himself to stop crying, though his inner fear is still just as palpable. All he can offer is an apology and a wish for the two of you to go back to bed. He offers himself no closure.

He can’t tell you that he kept the eye.

He can’t tell you that the one thing keeping him awake is his own sorry state of empathy, that his mind is _unwilling_ to _willingly_ break anything of such value to him.

He can’t admit to himself that he’s a hoarder of his own disastrous decisions, that each failure sticks around and shapes his self-worth with every glance in the mirror. That when his reflection looks _off,_ looks like _someone else, it scares him to death._

He spends most of his time trying to run away from the same demon he intentionally keeps within arms’ reach, and there’s nothing–_nothing_–you can do to stop the cycle of pain he’s created for himself. Because he thinks he deserves it.

And that’s the worst mistake of them all.


	3. Fuck it I love you. (AU!Jack/Reader)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU where Jack is the cliché "bad boy" type, all leather jacket, motorcycle, and smoke on his breath.

Walking down the street in the middle of the night held its own kind of buzz beyond that of booze and bongs; you're numbed by the sound of crickets and concrete, scraping your shoes along as you go just to keep yourself tied to the ground. Hazy from the contact high.

He has his hands in his pockets, so the saying goes, head angled downward as his eyes search vaguely in the darkness of a barely lit cul-de-sac. You pause your approach to watch him light up a thin cigarette with his back to someone's scuffed garage door, puffing once only to snuff it out in quick denial of addiction. The smoke lingers, casting the shadows away from your vision to reveal a scarred face blinking in starlight.

His eyes flash, a pair of mismatched blue and green. "I've seen _you_ around here before," He fails to suppress a Cheshire grin as you step forward. "Didn't expect you to be the kind to stay up so late, eh, pumpkin?"

"There was a _party,"_ You're quick to retort, and though he laughs in the face of your frustration his mirth soon turns sour. "Doesn't look like _you_ were invited."

"Oh, I was _invited,_ sweetheart. I don't _do_ parties." His inevitable excuse for an otherwise obvious answer, "Those kids, they don't know a 'party' from their own _ass._ Whatever that means. I have _standards."_

_Standards._ Standards like your hand meeting his thigh as you frame him up against the house, standards like your teeth at his neck or the way your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek when you're trying to think of what to say to his irrationality.

_"Jack,"_ You snap him out of his daze in a tone of acidity, his attention on you with little effort. "Can we skip the theatrics?" Impatient, though nonetheless expectant. "Are you walking me home or not?"

"I don't--"

"You don't _walk,_ I get it. You _'swagger.'" _You snort and wave your hand at his false front.

He pouts, though tamed by your calm power. As he steps to take your side you flash him a gentle smile, one that he returns despite some reluctance.

"You cramp my style." He grunts, taking your arm in his.

You simply hum._ "Good."_


End file.
